The fire was dead, and the taproom was dim and empty. Pale slivers of dawn stole through the shutters. As always, morning in the Halfking Tavern stank of stale beer, dried blood, and old vomit. Beneath the regular reek, the burnt metal smell of the silver dust lingered. The memory made Rigel’s shoulders hunch.

He sat at the bar and poked at his newly healed shoulder. The silver dust had sealed his wound and left behind a strange, shiny scar. He fanned his fingers and closed them into a fist. He’d regained full range of motion in his arm, but his bones had an aimless ache that refused to fade.

No matter how he dug at the queer feeling or prodded the silver scar, he couldn’t get used to it. He’d almost died last night. Now, it was just a scratch.

The real pain came after.

One year ago, Rigel’s father slipped off the roof of the Seven Arms Inn. Just like last night, there’d been a terrible storm. No one knew what Rigel’s father meant to steal, or what drove him to venture out into the shipbreaker. Likely, he was caned out of his mind. He fell four stories, broke his neck, and left his family nothing but debts.

One year.

A year of Rigel’s mother and sister living in the tiny room at the top of the stairs. They slept all day and sinned all night, toiling as the whores of Herkimer Halfking.

A year of debt-slave labor as a barboy. Sailors and thieves cursed Rigel and threw things for sport. He had to hold his tongue and mop up their vomit. As the night burned on, the drunks would climb the creaking stairs, sometimes a dozen a night.

When they swaggered back down, they liked to tell Rigel what they’d got for their money. He glared back, eyes frozen with impotent hate. They laughed in his face.

A year of sleeping in the dank cellar in a sack stuffed with moldering straw. He owned nothing. He was nothing.

A year of beatings. Herkimer Halfking was half a man, but worth two with a switch. Rigel was bigger than the pimp, but if he ever raised a hand back, Herk would have Sters the Hook break Rigel’s arms and legs. Then, they’d toss him into an alley on Gutter Row. Rigel once saw a man Sters had broken that way. The wretch crawled like a dog with a tin cup around his neck on a string.

If it was only tavern work, Rigel could have borne it. But that wasn’t enough for Herkimer Halfking. Every night, the dwarf sent him out to steal.

Rigel almost lost a hand while he learned to pick pockets. There was no one to guide him. He learned everything the hard way, on his own. How to climb silently, how to jimmy windows, and how to pick locks.

Some gangs were weak enough that he could encroach on their turf, others were absolutely not to be trifled with. No matter how much loot Rigel lugged back, Herkimer always accused him of holding out. Then, came the switch, lines of fire painted across his back. It never got easier.

The longest, worst year of Rigel’s life had ended last night, with a single score. Herkimer Halfking was an ugly, swindling, foul little troll, but he kept his word and canceled the debt. The orb was more valuable than Rigel’s entire family.

After Rigel recovered from the dust, he climbed the creaking stairs to bring the good news. His mother and sister answered the door naked from the waist up, expecting a customer. There was no shame left in them. Wearily, they covered themselves. Both reeked of liquor.

Choked with emotion, Rigel told his mother and sister he’d paid the debt. They were free! The three of them could return to their farm. Rigel had been keeping an eye on the homestead. The fields were choked with weeds, and the fences were falling apart, but all could be fixed. Rigel could do a man’s work now. They could rebuild and forget this entire wretched year.

Rigel’s mother stared at him, dead-eyed and drunk. The bright words he spoke could no more get through than a bird could fly through a stone wall.

“What’s left for us on the farm? We’re whores, now. No one will forget.”

“Only because you had no choice! You’re free now!” Rigel protested. He’d dreamed of this moment every night since Sters showed up to collect the debt. It was all going terribly wrong.

“If I am free, then I choose to stay here. There is food and a roof. We need not break our backs in the field. I’ll make a new agreement with Halfking. If the debt is paid, we can get a better cut.”

“B-but Shira! At least let Shira go free,” Rigel pleaded. When he looked at his sister, she shook her head.

“There’s nothing left for me. No one will marry me. If I leave, I’ll just wind up doing the same thing on the street for nothing. It’s better to stay here.”

The hopeless way Shira spoke made Rigel want to die. She was thirteen years old.

Rigel fled to the cellar to sob atop his sack of straw. After, he slunk to the bar to rub his shoulder and despair. He realized his mother was speaking Herkimer’s words. The ugly little man had convinced his mother and sister there was nothing more for them.

Worse, the dwarf wasn’t wrong. The villagers all knew what they’d been reduced to. Shira had no hope of marrying unless they moved far away. There was no money for traveling. The only way to get it was to keep on whoring and stealing.

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What was the point of it all?

The only point Rigel could see was the end of his new dagger. The stolen blade was inscribed with the Ramos’ herald, impossible to fence. If anyone caught him with it, he’d be hung. Rigel set the dagger on the bar and spun it. The blade pointed at the staircase.

If only there were some way to sell it. Spirals of gold wove around the leather pads of the grip. A bright jewel was set over each of the three towers carved into the pommel. The silver blade was keen and well-kept. Rigel picked up the dagger and hefted it in his hand.

This was in my arm. The ghost pain still burned.

Rigel’s thoughts turned to the ugly little man upstairs. Herkimer’s door was locked and barred, but the hallway was dark. Rigel could wait in the shadows. He could spring out and— The stairs creaked. Rigel bolted to his feet, dagger in hand.

It was only Fish. The mariner descended, shuffled to his stool, and squinted at the naked blade.

“That’s not how you hold a dagger,” Fish chuffed. He pointed a dirty finger at the bottles behind the bar.

Rigel scurried around to pour, dagger in hand.

“What did I just say? Put the dagger down, boy. You don’t want to get dusted twice.”

Rigel winced at the mention of dust. He set the dagger on the bar and poured a snifter of Succendo for Fish. He knew to lean his head away from the bottle so the fiery liquor didn’t make his eyes water. Fish was the only patron Rigel had ever seen drink it straight. Succendo could peel paint.

“I recognize that. Belongs to my stupid pupil. You’re lucky he’s witless. Who throws a fencing dagger?”

Rigel shrugged.

“You could have yanked it out and gutted him with it. Would have served him right. What are you up to? Just taking your stolen dagger for a stroll?

He knows!

Rigel tensed, afraid he was about to get hit. Fish tipped back the snifter and closed his eyes as the burn rolled through him. He clacked the empty glass against the bar. Sweat glittered on his temples.

“You’re too easy to read, boy. It’s no crime to want to kill a pimp. It’s no use, either. There are always more. You’d have to stab half the world to weed them out. I’m surprised. I had you figured for gutless.”

“I haven’t done it, yet.”

“But you were about to. How were you going to do it? In the hallway? Coming down the stairs? Maybe, in the middle of the day, in front of everyone. Fuck it, I’m a dead man, anyway?” There was a sudden, unnerving interest in the old mariner’s washed-out eyes.

“Are you going to tell Halfking?” Rigel dropped his voice to a whisper.

“If Herk had any sense, he’d have already known. He was stupid to keep you around. Young pups always come after old dogs. But why should I advise him? He’s no student of mine.”

Rigel poured another finger into the snifter and wondered if Fish had gone mad. Men with lakey eyes could not be trusted.

“So, what’s next for our young hero? More stealing, more getting stabbed? Perhaps you could follow your mother and sister into the trade. Probably earn more that way.”

Rigel picked up the dagger.

“I don’t think so,” Fish said. In a flash, he slapped the dagger out of Rigel’s hand. The blade twanged into a floorboard, an inch from Rigel’s big toe.

“I told you not to hold it like that. You didn’t listen. Nobody listens. Your hands are worthless. Use your brain. Who do you think told Herkimer about that orb? Me. Who supplied Halfking with the amulet that let you take it, unscathed? Me, again. You think I’m just some lake-eyed old drunk, don’t you?”

Rigel was silent.

“The fact is, what you were dreaming of, with that little pig-sticker you don’t know how to hold, I’ve already done.”

Fish drew the magic orb from his pocket. In the cerulean light, Rigel could see dark blotches on his hands and face.

“You risked your life for this. You faced down steel and sorcery to steal it. You don’t even know what the orb is for. Neither did the Halfking, and he never will. The clever ever rule the fools.”

Another boy would have been bursting with questions. Not Rigel. All the impulsiveness had been whipped out of him. He looked from orb to man, wondering which could hurt him worse.

Fish nodded in approval.

“Ah. If only everyone could keep their yap shut. This world would be paradise. Listen, listen, listen! That’s how one grows wise. You listen, you learn. When the mouth is open, the mind is closed. I kept telling Revel, but he never shuts his hole. None of this had to happen. But listen to me, blatherin’ all hypocritical. You want to know what this is?”

Fish raised the orb. Whorls of violet bloomed, and aqua motes twinkled beneath the crystal skin.

Rigel nodded.

“That’s a key. The Gate Orb opens a door. Behind that door, there’s a mountain full of traps and treasure. A horde of gold and jewels, riches beyond imagining. This orb is the key to the greatest fortune upon the Arc. You traded it to a half-pint pimp for next to nothing. Know the value of what you hold, boy. That’s how the canny rule the many.”

“The Rapaxoris!” Rigel breathed.

“Indeed.” Fish grinned.

He drained the snifter again and clapped it against the counter. Rigel moved to refill, but Fish shook his head.

“I need to keep a clear head. I’m setting off at once. It wouldn’t hurt to have some help to carry all those riches out of High Mountain. Especially someone who knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

Rigel considered the offer. Vicious as Fish was, it was doubtful they could even make it up the Rakkar. No one who went that way ever returned. The Rapaxoris was just a legend, but the orb was real enough. What did he have to lose?

“I want to see him,” Rigel decided.

“Look all you want. When you’ve had your fill, get us some food. Hard sausage, cheese, things that won’t spoil on the road. A week’s worth. We’re leaving straight away.”

The setup reeked of a trap or a joke, but there was no mirth in Fish’s spattered face. Rigel pried the dagger free and ascended the stairs. He knew how to plant his feet so they barely made a sound. Halfking’s door hung open, and candlelight spilled into the hall.

The smell of death hung in the hallway. Herkimer Halfking was half-headless, still on the floor. A dark stain soaked the rug, and an arc of blood spattered the tawdry wallpaper. Rigel looked until he felt seasick. He crept back down the stairs without a sound. Fish’s eyes followed him.

“Well?”

“They’ll think I did it. Even if I snitch, I’ll be here, and you’ll be gone. They’ll put it on me,” Rigel whispered.

The old fisherman nodded.

“You’re smarter than you look. I never planned to pin it on you, but that’s just what the uncles will do. Come with me if you want to keep your head on your shoulders.”

Rigel paused, ever cautious. What other choice did he have?

“All right,” Rigel agreed.

He plundered the storeroom and filled two burlap sacks with food while Fish scrubbed off Herkimer’s blood. Fish lifted the sacks, grunted with approval, and handed one back to Rigel.

“Hide that dagger,” he ordered.

“What about my mother and sister?” Rigel asked.

“What they don’t know, they can’t say. A slain pimp isn’t news. If we’re quick, we’ll have no trouble.”

The old man picked up his sack and headed for the door. Rigel jabbed the dagger into a loaf of bread, hid it in his bag, and hurried after.